Dean Winchester at Zombie Ground Zero
by Trins xxx
Summary: AU Season 1 - pre-series. Dean finds himself in Maine and in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. So what does he do? Drops a text to his father, a call to Bobby, grabs some blades and goes out to save lives. And are Sam and John willing to lose him to zombies? Hell no. Zombies are about to learn that nothing messes with Winchesters - not even zombie apocalypses.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer****: **I don't own Supernatural. I wish I did but I don't.

**Author's Note****: **I will own inspiration from a love of Shaun of the Dead and The Walking Dead. And also a lot of lonely-Dean, hurt-Dean and awesome-hero-saving-people-Dean with a lot of family Winchester love thrown in. So basically, I thought it would be awesome to see Dean and the Winchesters/Hunters fighting a zombie apocalypse with a bunch of pop culture references thrown in. And I quite liked the idea of Jess being around and a zombie apocalypse derailing the best laid plans of angels and demons and this is what I get – an AU Season 1 story with Dean at the zombie ground zero. (I might have gotten a bit too excited about Helix as well.)

**Read and review****: **I know this opening chapter isn't particularly funny but it will get funnier and Dean's shit-eating grin will definitely make multiple appearances. Until we get to those bits, tell me what you loved and hated about this, or whatever you were indifferent about. At least tell me how to improve my writing.

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**Dean Winchester At Zombie Ground Zero**

'_When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad, and that is my religion.'_

Abraham Lincoln

**I**

Dean hated himself right now, hated his tenacity and stubbornness, hated the way he knew his father and knew how to work him, hated his independence and that he liked saving people because right now, he'd just killed more than a dozen fucking people. How sick was that?

Jesus, he'd been in California just a few weeks ago, checking on Sammy and making sure his baby brother was doing alright. He'd met his dad for a hunt a little ways north, and then he'd cajoled his dad into letting him take a hunt by himself a little ways more north. And then there'd been another hunt that Dean hadn't told his dad about, taking him a little further, and another that he'd talked his dad into letting him do because Caleb was around for back-up. He'd enjoyed it, the freedom, the independence, feeling like he was all grown up.

What a joke.

Right now, he felt four years old again, wanting his daddy to hold him tight the way he had, whispering promises that he'll never let him go as they'd watched their house (his mum) burn. His dad was gonna kill him if he got the chance to see him again.

_If_. The word left a sickening feeling (or it could be the smell of rotting flesh) but Dean, for all that he was an optimist, he was also a realist and he knew there was a very good chance he wouldn't be getting out of this alive, at least in the traditional sense.

When he'd gotten close to Maine, there'd been jokes more than anything but his curiosity had been spiked. Where there were jokes, there were rumours, and where there were rumours, sometimes there were fuglies to kill so he'd made his merry way to Maine. And there _had_ been rumours, rumours of small hermit-like lone farms going silent, then small villages. Probably a power line; _probably_.

He should've known better than to go into a radio-silent area. Well, he had known better, had gone prepared. The big cities had no idea about any of this, the smaller towns in the north-east had jokes, and the bigger villages had rumours.

It was a small step to go from a big village to a smaller one that had gone silent. He'd decided on the stealthy approach, usually the safer option when going in blind. He'd started driving in the dark through the winding routes, surrounded by tall foliage that hid much of the moonlight. It must be why he didn't see anything travelling.

He'd reached the village and it hadn't taken him long to find blood and guts on the ground – _literal_ blood and guts with a smell that was begging him to hurl. It looked eaten and he'd taken silver bullets out immediately, mentally preparing himself for werewolves or wendigos. It wasn't quite the right time for werewolves and not quite the right method for wendigos but better to be over-prepared than under; in the end, he had been ridiculously under-prepared.

He'd stopped the car completely, finding the roads full of corpses and carcasses, including children. God, he just couldn't get used to seeing innocent children dead. He'd made his way on foot, ears on the alert for the slightest sounds, fingers ready on the trigger and a flame-thrower in his pocket. The small village boasted of one inn, so small that Dean suspected there was room enough only for two, maybe three guests at the most.

Eyes had darted up and down the street, everything deathly quiet, eerily still. He'd knocked on the door, _loudly_, and then turned the handle to enter when he didn't get a reply. He'd blinked, once, twice, several times over too many seconds taking in the ridiculous sight in front of him. And he nearly threw up when he realised it was real. Zombies, around a couple dozen, all walking towards him, hands outstretched, ready to kill him and mouths hungry. It looked like it did in every horror movie he'd seen and comic books he'd read. Bodies were decomposing, clothes were torn, tattered, covered in blood and bile and sometimes more solid-ish body parts. What they all failed to illustrate was the overpowering smell, a million times worse than a coroners office, like burning a wendigo but amplified, a smell so disgustingly powerful that he could taste it in his mouth, practically feel the peeling skin grazing his own.

And awesome hunter that he was, the first thing Dean did, once he actually believed what he was seeing, was he vomited. Long and hard until he didn't even have any bile left to throw up. He'd had brains enough to back away; one thing the movies did get right was the slow movement of the zombies. But despite backing away, when he'd looked up, wiping his mouth, there were a couple pairs of arms mere inches from his face.

Yelping in surprise (he'd deny any fear till the day he died – potentially any time now), he'd jumped back a couple feet and automatically shot for the head. All three shots were hit but he had the foresight to observe them closely. After all, vampires weren't particularly affected by garlic and they definitely weren't shimmery, so pop culture could have gotten this wrong too.

They hadn't. He'd sighed in relief and then debated. In the end, he'd moved forward and shot each and every one of them in the head. The less zombies, the better the chances of survival, he'd reasoned. He'd legged it back to his Impala, relieved to find her beautiful bodywork as shiny and clean as before he'd realised zombies existed.

He'd driven back the way he'd come, trying to come up with the ideal game plan. He knew he'd have to do the first bits of it solo – chances were low that there were hunters in the nearby area and this was a time-sensitive matter, not only in terms of innocent lives lost but also in terms of increasing numbers of zombies. He'd settled on calling Bobby, telling him what he knew and calling in for reinforcements to contain the zombified area. His plan was then to go back and check for any survivors, killing as many zombies as he could. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth – easy enough to say that he'd kill the zombies but killing something that had clearly been somebody's five year old baby girl was a whole different matter. It was hard to wrap his mind around the fact that these were _people_, hours or days ago, people who had probably done nothing to deserve any of it.

It didn't take him too long to reach the town he'd been staying in. He'd gone equally slowly and quietly on the return trip, not anxious to attract any zombies that might be nearly. That thought alone sent his heart beating horrendously fast. He'd parked his car and popped up his trunk, quickly assessing how many bullets he had left and how many knives. He knew off-hand that he had at least long bladed knives (just in case Dad and Sammy were ever short of one) and he thanked a god he was far from believing in that he had them. There was definitely safety in distance and he hadn't worked out whether the zombie transmission was by bite alone or whether scratches could do it. For that matter, he had no clue what the fuck caused this, so really, his one and only bet was getting in touch with Bobby.

He let himself into the motel with his key, his mind distracted with ideas and plans but his ears on the alert for any suspicious sounds. He didn't spy any blood or guts, only the usual stains that had made him wrinkle his nose with a little bit of disgust the first time he had entered it, and made his way to his bed with no mishap and no screams alerting him to an incoming zombie apocalypse.

His fingers fiddled with the numbers on his phone, debating whether it was too early to call Bobby or not. By this time, it was past five but knowing Bobby, anything before ten in the morning was unseasonably early. In the end, he darted off a quick text to his dad to let him know he was case-filing some funny stuff in Maine (too much of a chicken to call him) and he'd dialled the number to Bobby's before he could chicken out.

Funny that he always found it easier turning to Bobby for help.

After the third ring, the familiar raspy voice came across the phone with a very annoyed, 'What the hell do you want this early in the morning, idjit?'.

Letting out a somewhat relieved chuckle after the things he'd come across that night, strange even for a hunter, he decided the blunt approach would be the best. 'Hey to you too, Bobby. Don't suppose you've ever hunted zombies, have you?'

Any hope he held that Bobby might know something died quickly with his snappy response. 'Not been eating too many stale cheetos before sleeping, have you?', with a snort for added effects.

It didn't take long to tell the myriad of rumours and the tiny amount of knowledge he held, despite interruptions and multiple exclamations from Bobby. Dean could practically see him take off his baseball cap and scratch his head at times. There was a silence once he'd finished but Dean waited, having had first-hand experience of smacks upside his head any time he tried to rush Bobby.

'Well,' the old hunter said finally, taking care with each word. 'I'll round up any free hunters to head your way. _You_ need to stay put,' he said sternly. 'I know your instinct is telling you to run gung-ho and save anyone – if there's anyone left; doesn't sound like there is. But getting yourself killed is gonna be a waste of time and a waste of a chance. You need to do this cleverly, to maximise the people you can save. And to do that, you need at least one other hunter to watch your back, you got it?'

Dean reluctantly acquiesced, more out of tiredness than anything else. Twenty-four hours without sleep was hardly the longest he'd gone without but it did make his reflexes slower, his thinking just a bit more muddled than it would otherwise be. After promising to call Bobby before doing anything – 'stupid or otherwise, kid' – he fell into his bed into a deep sleep, which even troubled dreams of the Dawn of the Dead variety did little to disturb.

It was approaching dusk when muffled screams jerked him awake. His hands had found his gun, his finger on the trigger and he had already scouted the entire room before his brain woke up sufficiently to tell him that the screams were coming from outside. A quick look outside the window made him pinch himself, hard, just to make sure it wasn't a dream.

His stomach churned and despite having it empty, Dean found it within himself to vomit once again, this time bile only. The roads were overrun with zombies, the kind of visual that would have made AMC proud. People were screaming, getting into cars and crashing into people, building, zombies, as panic spread faster than a common cold. And as far as he could tell, not a damn gun in sight. Fucking democrats, he though as his hands found a couple of knives and tucked one in each of his socks. He had time enough to drop Bobby a call.

'Bobby, things are going to hell. Zombies have entered the town, and I'm going out to see who I can save, do what I can do to kill as many of the zombies as I can.' He wasn't sure if the entire message had gotten through to Bobby's phone before it cut out. Distantly, he could see doors caving in from the weight of the zombies bearing down on it as screams resonated throughout the small town. He watched the scenes unfold on the streets, could see the zombies chomping down on people as they screamed and he still couldn't quite work out how it spread – by bite, scratch, bodily fluids (the last one made him dry heave).

He waited a couple more seconds and dashed out of his room. He didn't have time to go Discovery Channel on the zombies. For now, it would be all about saving as many people as he could and killing as many zombies as he could. He knocked on all of the doors on his floor, none of them opening as he ran downstairs.

The owner was dead, eaten and not become a zombie, Dean noted, before stabbing the handful of zombies standing inside the entrance of the motel in the head. All dead, he paused to make sure. He took one last look around the room before taking a deep breath and going outside the building, where mayhem reigned.

Should've dropped a line to Sammy, was his last thought before the overpowering stench of death and walking corpses filled his mouth, eyes watering and ears bleeding from the desperation and desolation that rang in them.

Time to kill some zombies and save lives; he raised his hands, long-bladed knife held in both and ventured into a world that was as alien to a hunter as to a regular person, and shit if he liked the odds of that!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer****: **I do not own Supernatural but I wish I did.

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**Dean Winchester at Zombie Ground Zero**

'_I always keep a supply of stimulant handy in case I see a snake – which I also keep handy.'_

W. C. Fields

**II**

He squared his shoulders, swallowed the lump in his throat and pointedly ignored his thumping heart. Damn if he'd ever admit that he was scared. Not for himself, not really, but more for his son – the one who was really the sensitive one with a bleeding heart. And who was also most noticeable for his absolute silence since managing to find himself in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. (_Only Dean could_, he thinks, part pride and part something that feels unpleasantly like guilt.)

He braces his knuckles – dried blood still present courtesy of the wall that was his latest victim – and knocks. Three times, firmly. He barely waits before banging on the door again, more urgency this time. And then, just in case his knocks didn't seem urgent enough, he knocks again. The entire time, his heart is doing a belly dance that his stomach's trying to copy. He's not sure which is winning but he knows that he feels sick and his chest feels like it's about to explode but before either of them succeed, the door opens to a beautiful blonde.

_Dean would appreciate this view_, but he pushes the words away, blinks away the gravel that's taken place in his eyes before the tears can join it.

'Can I help you?' He gives the blonde credit for at least _trying_ to look like she isn't judging him, even if her lightning glance up and down isn't missed. And at least she hasn't physically wrinkled her nose at him, John thinks.

_Not Dean's type, definitely Sam's_.

He pushes thoughts of his son away, because he's not convinced he'd be able to talk if he _doesn't_ push away those thoughts (and the cocktail mixture of panic-despair-guilt-love that comes with it).

'I need to speak with Sam,' his words are blunt and curt and definitely less request and more of a demand. Ah well, he tried to be conciliatory and polite. Clearly he was rusty, and if Dean were here, he would've muttered 'she started it, anyway'. He misses his kids way too much – even the one that hates him.

'And _who_ are you?' She purses her lips after the question, eyes narrowed and her entire self radiates suspicion.

'I'm his father,' John replies, softening his tone as best he can but he needn't have bothered. He knows the moment the words register with the girl because her face transforms into the face a furious Medusa would be proud of. John's honestly surprised not to see acid being spat at him or claws aiming for his face.

'You're his father?' Her words snap at each syllable and John fights the urge to roll his eyes. He so doesn't have time for this.

'Yup, and I need to speak to him, _urgently_,' he says, ignoring her mouth opening to speak and instead shoving his shoulders against the door. It slams against the wall but he ignores the crash and the yelp from the blonde. He should try to assuage her fear or explain himself but he doesn't have the patience on a good day, and nil at all when a son might be in danger. He's ready to yell the house down to find Sam but the tallest of the Winchesters saves him the trouble.

'Jess, what's going...on?' His eyes widen and then his brows furrow as Sam realises who's responsible for the noise. 'Dad?' The word sounds like a curse the way Sam says it but John doesn't flinch, well aware of what exactly Sam thinks of him.

John says two words which are the only ones that could stop Sam from going into a rant. 'It's Dean.'

And just like that, the anger from Sam's face is gone and there's stark fear, and John's ashamed to admit it but it relieves him to know that Sam still cares. Sam's the only one who cares for Dean like he does, maybe more so. John forestalls any questions with the smallest of gestures, instead posing his own. 'Have you been watching the news?'

He doesn't know what Sam sees in his face but instead of arguing with him, he gives a curt nod. He steps forward towards the blonde that's now openly glaring at him, all pretence dropped and John's having far too many moments of epiphany, all resulting in a taste of bitterness and self-loathing. He has another one now. Does his youngest son really think he would be a danger to the blonde that's got his kid wrapped around her finger? Sam just slams the door. There's no standing between his father and his girl, no stand-offs and the relief he feels stings like liquor on a cut.

'What's going on? Where's Dean?' The words from Sam are staccato with each syllable clear, his eyes are a blurred mixture of resentment, anger and a panic that John can always relate to.

'Is Maine in the news at all?' John answers with a question and is answered in turn with a stiff shake. 'There's apparently a zombie apocalypse your brother's in the middle off,' John says and it sounds so deadpan that he can hear the canned laughter. His eyes stay on his son's face, even as he hears sounds of disbelief from his right. Sam's mouth falls open, the disbelief on his face matching the sounds of his girlfriend and there's a part of John that thinks this looks so _right_, Sam with his apple pie life.

'Only _Dean_ could... How... When...' Sam _literally_ splutters with rage quickly overtaking the disbelief on his face.

John agrees full-heartedly with a 'yup'.

It's the difference between a phantom limb and a working one, between blind in one eye and able to see through both. Whatever it is like, it feels right for father and son to be reunited. The only thing missing is the only thing that always kept them together. But with the two of them, John finally has a glimmer of hope, the first since the damned text.

* * *

Dean was no longer just surrounded by the smell, he was positively covered in zombie crap – hopefully not literally. He had taken to slashing, stabbing, cutting, swiping at the heads of all the zombies that had approached him, and much of the time, it had been messy. Blood had occasionally squirted out sluggishly, bits had been chopped off and gone flying, and before long, Dean was covered in bits and pieces from the zombies he had killed and the smell had become a second skin, almost literally.

He kept his eyes sharp, not just for incoming zombies but any survivors he could help. None so far, and the thought was depressing. He didn't even have the satisfaction of feeling like he was killing monsters, because how many of these people had woken with a desire to eat people?

His steps had become stealthy. He'd realised soon enough that while the zombies could see and hear (he wasn't sure on smell and definitely wasn't convinced about taste), their senses appeared dulled. They could see but only what was close to them and they could hear but only sounds that were loud, and Dean had taken full advantage of that.

He's taken to killing the zombies in the streets, popping into buildings and 'clearing' them of zombies while searching desperately for anyone alive. He'd never done well on his own and now was no different. Right now, he'd just managed to close the door on a zombie, finding himself in a small convenience store. Good timing too, because he was parched, his dry tongue rolling over his bottom lip like sandpaper. He crept to the window, staying just in case. Peering outside to count the number of zombies near the entrance, he saw her. Dark haired, rounded face, dark eyes and delicately shaped pink little lips, she was a beautiful child. Her mouth was open wide, as wide as her eyes and Dean had no hopes of hearing her words but he could guess them. He could see her through the windows of a car before his view was obstructed the zombies surrounding her. He thought her eyes might have stared directly into his as she disappeared from his view.

There were too many, he was too far, he repeated to himself but it didn't ease his guilty conscience or his dry heaving. He didn't think he would ever forget that image – a child, looking barely five years old – about to be devoured. He could see her every time he blinked, could imagine her screams though he never heard them.

Would it be worth surviving this, for those memories to continue haunting him?

He scrambled slowly away, careful to make minimal noise and eyes forcefully averted from the window. He didn't want the slightest chance of seeing what remained of the little girl. A noise caught his attention – a soft thud barely audible over the background hub but it was definitely coming from the inside. One hand was quick to wipe his mouth of any remnants of vomit, the other gripped a long bladed knife tightly, a if he hadn't just asked himself existential questions.

It was with the intention of surviving that he crept to a door that undoubtedly led to the back. His blade-free hand gripped the door knob, tested his fingers bending and stretching them before turning it and opening the door in one sudden action. His blade was quick to enter the room first, held protectively in front of his face, when his green eyes beheld large hazel ones in a pinched thin face covered with sandy brown hair.

It was a moment before the adrenaline ebbed away, heart slowing gradually and dry tongue again slipping across full lips in a nervous habit. 'Kid, you okay?' He spoke in a voice of gravel, scratchy from lack of use. 'You been bitten, scratched?' He added quickly.

The boy did little more than shake. Dean crouched, began to approach him and didn't miss the flinch or the scared sound swallowed as quickly as it came. The hair was messy, grazing his shoulders in no unified fashion with tangles visible. Whilst it succeeded in hiding his face, it did little to disguise the cheekbones that jutted out, the too thin neck leading to bony shoulders and arms. Nor were the bruises invisible. The question remained as to whether the bruises were from before or after all hell broke loose.

'Easy, kid,' Dean kept his voice low, soft, as soothing as possible. He lowered his blade to the floor, held up empty hands for inspection. 'I'm not gonna hurt you. I just need to make sure you haven't been bitten or scratched or anything. You okay with that?'

After a pause that felt like an eternity, the boy nodded just the once, a sharp jut down and up of his chin, the fear radiating noxiously from him.

'Good,' Dean spoke slowly, eyes never leaving the boys'. 'You think I can check out your arms first?' The arms were held out, shaking too much for Dean to inspect it clearly. When his hands reached to still them, there was another flinch, an expression of panic on the kid's face that didn't fade away. Dean kept his hands gentle, lifting up the sleeves of the T-Shirt to make sure there wasn't anything breaching the skin. The bruises were easy to identify as fingers, looked as if he had been grabbed from behind and combined with the fear, the thoughts made Dean's stomach churn.

This was the easy part. Slowly but surely, Dean checked the rest of the boy's body, ignoring the tremors as best he could, turning a deaf ear to the occasional choked sob and eyes blind to the tears that escaped despite the boy's best intentions. His hands remained gentle, touching only when necessary and the more bruises he saw, the more clear his story became.

'You're clean kid.' Dean tossed his eyes around the room, from wall to wall, taking in boxes, mostly unopened, and the doorless toilet sitting in a corner. 'So what're you doing in here? Hiding away? The place isn't bad.' The boy didn't reply but at least he had stopped shaking. 'My name's Dean,' he volunteered, settling his back against the wall with the door. He drummed his fingers as seconds became minutes but it finally paid off. There's an incomprehensible sound that has Dean looking up at the underweight boy, his pale cheeks flushing red.

'Phillip,' he finally repeats himself. 'My name is Phillip.' He's shot with a megawatt smile that has his lips twitching upwards, taking even more years of his age.

'Great to meet you Phil,' Dean chirps, before adding disingenuously, 'I'm starving. Want me to grab some stuff from out there?'

The look of fear takes over Phil's face swiftly and completely. 'Isn't he out there?' He's trembling again.

'Who?'

'Leo,' the teenager spits out, sounding like he's choking and gagging at the same time. 'The shop owner,' he clarifies.

'Wait, you've been in here all day?' Dean's eyes are furrowed, confused and Phil's face goes red again. He'd rather not talk about this, would honestly rather choke on his vomit or die in this miserable room but is it worth losing the only person who's shown him an iota of kindness for longer than he can remember?

'They kept me here.' _They_, not _he_. The significance isn't lost on Dean. 'They kept the door locked most of the time,' he shrugged, voice as ashen as his face. 'There wasn't really any point in trying to escape, I didn't have anywhere to go.' Nobody to turn to, he could have added but doesn't. He's looking at the floor, studiously avoiding Dean and misses the flash of rage crossing his face that made him look terrifying.

When Dean does speak, his face is carefree, a smile tugging on one side of his lips, eyes holding an expression no different to what they had held before Phil's confession. It feels like salvation to him. 'Well, want me to tell you what you've missed?' He pauses for dramatisation. 'Zombies,' he says with the most manly of showgirl voices that he can manage. He's rewarded with a strangled laughter and an easing of his expression. Dean learns an important lesson: if you want to break it to someone that there is a zombie apocalypse, this isn't the way to do it.

He eyes the boy and makes a decision. No need to crush hope so recently sprung just yet. He plasters on a grin, the kind that used to have Sam scowling at him and his dad rolling his eyes. 'Stay put, I'm getting us some grub.'

Crouching down, he makes his way into the shop, grabs some sandwiches, beef jerky and a bottle of soda before heading back. Hardly the best food he's ever had but Phil's eyes are wide, this time with glee and they eat in companionable silence. It's better than he'd hoped for.

* * *

Jess watches the two of them carefully. She's frowning, lips scowling with absolutely zero attempt at hiding her displeasure. Her eyes watch Sam with a hawk-like intensity as he makes black coffee, the kind both of them hate and watches his father accept it seamlessly. She watches his father, who still frightens her even though he's sitting, looking frustratingly at home in a place that is decidedly _not_ his home. As far as she is concerned, he is entirely responsible for the scars that cover Sam's body that he refuses to talk about, for his withdrawn personality and reluctance to trust, for the nightmares he sometimes has but arduously denies. He is responsible for every bad thing that has happened to Sam that Jess doesn't know about because he doesn't talk about his past.

It's why the apparent armistice between the two is getting to her, like an itch just beneath her skin that all the scratching in the world won't satisfy.

'Thanks Sammy,' The Man grunts as he takes a sip of the foul coffee.

'It's Sam, not Sammy,' is the automatic response and Jess straightens her back, feels her scowl lifting because that's the boyfriend she loves. The feeling's gone instantly because there's a smile of sorts on Sam's face, reflecting that of his father and they're _sharing a moment_ like she isn't even there.

Stockholm Syndrome, Jess thinks, still sitting on the edge of her seat, energy thrumming for a fight, for a chance to call this man out for all that he put his son through.

'What's happened to Dean?'

Jess knows that Dean is Sam's older brother. It's the only thing she knows about him except that, as the older brother, he should've protected Sam. As far as she's concerned, he holds equal responsibility for all that Sam went through. So all in all, she doesn't really give a damn _where_ Dean is or _how _he is, as long as he's far away from _her_ Sam.

'Dad? What happened to Dean? Where is he?' Sam's voice is louder this time, higher in pitch and whilst Jess recognises the anger within in, there's desperation and pleading there that she doesn't understand.

John runs a hand down his face, the exhaustion momentarily becoming visible. 'Did he call you?' He asks instead. 'Did you get a call from him, a message, anything?' There's an identical desperation and pleading in his voice and Jess wants nothing more than to smash that mug onto his face. Was Dean his favourite? Was that it?

Sam shakes his head, demands answers, voice trembling and she's next to him in a second. One hand on a shoulder, one rubbing soothing circles on his back. It always works, relaxes the tense muscles, except this time, it seems.

'He's in trouble,' John finally says and it sounds like defeat.

Sam's suddenly straightening his back, every muscle in his body tensed and ready for battle. 'What do you _mean _he's in trouble?' It's a demand and Jess' hands automatically still at the change. This isn't her boyfriend, this _animal_ coiled and ready for attack. For a moment, he seems just as frightening as his father.

She looks at John just as he looks at her, and she's sure her animosity is clear but there isn't any on his face. She hates him all the more for it.

'Jess, do you mind giving my father and I some privacy?' She turns to face Sam but he's staring at his father and suddenly, she feels like she's the one that doesn't belong here.

'But...' She starts, uncertain of how to continue. 'Are you sure?' She ends up asking lamely.

'Please, Jess, give us a minute.' Sam's words are short, staccato and it's startling to have it directed at her. 'Jess, pleae?' He repeats, his tone softer and she gives in only because she has no other option. She stomps upstairs and sits on her bed, traitorous tears teasing at her eyes. It's less than fifteen minutes before she can hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

The door opens with a bang and Sam stalks in, his actions full of focused intention. It's completely the opposite of the bookworm she's come to love.

'I have to go,' he says without preamble, without even looking at her. He's grabbed the bag he always keeps under their bed and is shoving clothes in there.

'What about the LSAT? Your career?'

'It doesn't matter, _Dean's_ in trouble,' he looks at her finally, bafflement on his face and words.

'You don't owe them anything, Sam,' she pleads, reigning in her anger. 'They hurt you. I've seen the scars, I know they've hurt you and family doesn't _do_ that. You owe them _nothing_ Sam. You've got your family here. Me, Mel, Leo, Brady... _We're _your family, and we're here, _for you_.'

Sam's staring at her and if she didn't know him so well, she would've missed the anger flowing beneath his blank mask.

'Dean never hurt me, Jess,' he finally responds. 'Neither did my dad, not like that anyway,' He continues before she has a chance to interrupt. 'And I'm going. My brother's in trouble and I'm not leaving him alone.' He's back to shoving clothes in the bag and she almost misses what he says under his breath. 'He'd never leave me in trouble.'

'Fine, I'm going with you.'

'No, you're not,' Sam replies, chin jutting obstinately.

'I'm not letting you go alone with _that man_,' she snaps back furiously, hands balled into angry fists.

'Sam? You ready?' John's eyes shift between the two, clearly sensing the tension.

'I'm coming with you,' Jess states with determination. John merely raises his eyebrows, glances at Sam before shrugging his shoulders.

'We're heading to Nebraska first,' he says emotionlessly. 'Be ready to leave in five.'

That's how Jess finds herself five minutes later in a truck with a man she despise and a man she thought she knew, on her way to halfway across the country.

* * *

They waited it out for a little more than a couple of hours, Dean and Phil bouncing ideas and pop culture reference off of each other. Thank god he was stuck with someone with a sense of humour, Dean thought, even as his mind drifted to large brown eyes in the face of a child.

As light began to fade, Dean decided it was time to make the move. Too much darkness could be a hindrance as much as a help, too much light would aid and abet the zombies far more than them. It hadn't taken Dean long to actually come up with a plan of action, even if it was only for the night. There was a small apartment building he had cleared earlier. Two stories high, Dean had decided it would be the perfect place to stay for the night. It made tactical sense to hole up on the first floor. With only a staircase as the point of entry, it would be easy to defend and if worst came to worst, there was a floor above with a fire escape for everyone else to run to whilst he held off any attackers, human or otherwise. Dean had seen enough human monsters to have any illusions of what they might turn to in a catastrophe like this.

'You ready for this?' He searched the youth's face, writ with fear. He doubted he would find anything else and, really, fear helped prevent stupidity as much as caused it. 'Okay, whatever happens, don't yell. No noises, keep low to the ground and if anything gets near you, grab me and I'll kill it. I'll stay beside you the entire time, okay?'

Reluctantly, Phil nodded, his pale face whitening further. It had taken a glimpse outside the window to convince him that Dean hadn't been lying and he'd never felt so grateful to have someone beside him.

Dean opted to be the first to face the outside, slipping out silently, Phil following close behind. Lucky for them, there were only a few of the undead loitering near the shop.

Dean has estimated the distance as maybe three hundred metres but scrutinising it now, he thought it was maybe closer to five hundred. It ordinarily wouldn't make much difference but these weren't ordinary circumstances and Phil was very green with these situations. Those extra two hundred metres made it that much more likely for something to go wrong.

They were halfway there when it happened. The few zombies that had noticed them had been dealt with decisively by Dean. The few that Phil had noticed that Dean hadn't were dead as well, but there was always going to be the one that they both missed. They were ere paces away from a clear stretch of street and the euphoria had hit Dean strong and hard when he heard a strangulated yelp behind him. Turning swiftly, he found Phil on the floor, fighting to keep his lips shut even with the overwhelming panic. He had clearly been grabbed from behind and from how he was favouring his left arm, he'd probably landed heavily on his right. Using his bent legs to push the zombie away, there was a second on its way but there was only so much Phil could do with his arm unprotected by clothing other than a flimsy T-Shirt.

Within a blink, Dean was there, arm swinging wilding at the zombie. The first blow amputated its left arm. The second blow struck the head and, with a final push, put a final stop to the zombie. It was a struggle to retract the blade but once it was free of the skull, it was swung hard at the head of the first of the other two zombies to arrive. Phil was up on his feet by this time, green in the face, but it allowed Dean to manoeuvre, so that the dead zombie, blade stuck in its head, was between the oncoming zombie and himself. Pulling it free, he ignored the body as it fell at his feet, choosing instead to charge at the last zombie that had been attracted to them. A swing, a push, a pull and he was running again, staying low to the ground, eye darting all around. Phil followed him, dazed and would later wonder _how_ Dean could stay so calm with stuff like this going on. Even later, he would wonder _what_ Dean was. But now, and later, he would always be the reason Phil wasn't dead.

They managed to reach the sought after building with no further mishap. Dean shoved the door open, found it swinging with more ease than expected. He flinched at the clap as the door hit the wall, even as he gestured for Phil to enter first. Eyes quickly surveyed for danger but the only predators attracted to them were still at least fifty metres away. He wasn't sure about the condition of their brains or memory but if luck was on their side (first time for everything), then maybe they'll have forgotten before they could reach here and surround them.

He turned his searching eyes on Phil. 'You okay?' All he received was a jerky nod but he wasn't surprised. If anything, he was impressed that the food was still in his stomach and said so. He received a tremulous smile at that, but it was better than before.

It doesn't take them long to decide to settle for the night. It also doesn't take long for Dean to suggest they take turns to stay awake and for Phil to agree. Dean literally snorts with laughter when the kid suggests hour-long shifts because, seriously, how much rest do you actually get from sleeping for an hour? They (Dean) decide on four hour shifts and Dean opts for the first one.

He passes the time by thinking what he would say to Sam and what he would say to dad. The thought of saying anything to the both of them ends with loud arguments that are far too close for comfort. His eyes monitor the entrance of their building. He's relieved to see it slowly emptying, the movements slow and sluggish.

The realisation dawns slowly. The darkness slows them down, disorients them maybe. He doesn't know the logic behind it or cares but it's a useful to know. His eyes track their movements, occasionally drifting to the kid. His face is pinched in sleep, eyes roving left and right in a dreamful sleep. He can't imagine it's a peaceful sleep but it'll do the job. His eyes focus once again on the monstrosities outside. Maybe travelling in the dark would be better?

Four hours pass surprisingly quickly, considering the inactivity. The kid wakes up with a jerk, frightened eyes focusing on nothing until they reach Dean. As he takes guard, Dean falls asleep easily, his dreams no more haunted than usual (though that _desperation_ for _mom_ is more pronounced).

He's feeling far from rested when he feels arms shaking him. He's awake and alert within seconds. He blinks but there's no sunlight blinding him and a quick glance outside shows no dawn on the horizon. As alert as he is, he feels sluggish in how long it takes him to comprehend what Phil's saying.

'There's someone out there, someone _normal_ like us.'

He's ready for action as soon as the words register.

'She's attracting the zombies,' Phil blurts out and they stare at each for a second. Dean knows they come to the same conclusion.

'Lock the door behind me,' he orders as he marches through the door. 'And don't let anyone in unless it's me.' _Put a blade through my head if I get infected_, but the words stay on his lips. He wouldn't want to put that burden on the kid anyway.

He watches her through the window next to the entrance. The yellow light cast by the streetlamps are lacklustre at best, better art creating a horror movie ambience than illumination but he's able to see her figure darting across the street. He can't make out the minutiae but her overall figure is pleasing to his eyes. His lips quirk upwards – he's not exactly picky.

She's attracting them as she runs across and he's willing to risk a lot to save anyone (everyone) but not the life of the kid upstairs. Optimistic as he is, he doesn't have a chance against the crowd she's attracting. His eyes watch her closely, waiting, hoping that she'll catch a break.

He hands were itchy as he waited for the optimal moment, thanked the stars that whoever she was, she seemed to have a brain. She was clearly striving for the fire escape and when she's _just there_, stepping towards the _right place_, he opens the door, grabs her arms, drags her in and shuts the door in the faces of all those faceless zombies.

Two survivors in twenty-four hours. He never thought he'd be satisfied with those numbers.

* * *

'What's in Nebraska?'

The question finally draws Sam from the swirling misery of his thoughts (_if Dean dies, it's my foult; if Dean dies, he'll die alone; if Dean dies, the world will never be right again_). He throws a glance at his dad, sees inscrutable emotions cross his face before they're pushed away.

'The Roadhouse,' is his uncommunicative answer. He hears Jess snort and he knows she's as little satisfied as he is but he's lived with his father for years, knows him as well as he knows himself, probably better than he'll ever really know Dean. Just because they argued didn't mean Sam didn't _know_ the guy. Rather, he knew _exactly_ what to do, what to say to make him explode. He snuggles against the seat, letting the silence fill the truck and he's rewarded soon enough.

'It's a bar run by the Harvelles,' his voice surrounds them though he isn't loud. John's dark eyes, so like his own, have a knowing look in them as they skim him. 'Hunters drop by often.'

'Hunters? What do you hunt?' Sam almost growls at Jess for interrupting his father. He's turning around to face the blonde when he realises his father is looking at him, waiting for his lead. His throat feels clogged.

'We hunt monsters, Jess,' he speaks around the clog. He doesn't realise what he's said until he sees her face awash with horror.

'What do you _mean_, monsters?' Her voice sounds like a squeak and she's so different to the woman he loved. _Loves_, he corrects himself. He _loves_ Jess. 'There's no such thing, Sam. I don't like this.' Her eyes are watering, words wavering and all Sam thinks is that no, he doesn't like it either. But he suspects that, for once, he has more in common with his dad than the love of his life. It's a jarring thought.

'They're real,' he replies, voice soft as if that could soften the blow. 'And apparently so are zombies.' He receives a choked-up laughter but she can see that he isn't joking. He sympathises, he honestly does. He can still remember finding out that there are things that go bump in the night. He remembers being tiny and young and so scared. And it was years and years later when he realised that Dean had been smaller when he must've found out, more scared and with a dead mother to boot.

'I know it's a lot to take in, and if you want to leave,' he pauses but doesn't add _me_. 'We won't stop you. Who's going to be there?' He's turned back, watching his father from the corner of his eye and sees an emotion pass through, something that looks like regret mixed with pride.

'Bobby,' he grunts. 'Rufus, Caleb. Parson Jim's gotten a message but he's on some sorta mission at the moment. And every other hunter we could get in touch with. It's a big one,' his lips are in a firm line. 'We need everyone on this.'

Sam's thoughts drift again, to the surrealism of the situation. 'Dean's managed to make a lot of friends in the hunting community,' he hears his father speak and they wear identical lopsided smile.

It was given that they would drive through the night, with four hour shifts – enough time to rest and recover, not so long that they get tired or sloppy when driving. They drive above the speed limit but not overtly so, not enough to be suspicious. It feels as natural as breathing and Sam wonders if maybe his change in posture isn't from that instinctive need to be ready. Could it be from being able to _be_ himself? The end of pretence, of not picking up signs of unusual activity in the newspaper (and noting their absence a couple of weeks later).

They take toilet breaks and the seconds burn beneath his skin like acid, each second another second Dean's alone fighting _fucking zombies_. It's fitting that out of all the Winchesters, he's the one there right now. None of them liked zombie movies the way he did, and he would force them to sit through each new film and old, and because it was _Dean_, they would grumble but comply, his cheesy grins and infectious laughter more than compensation enough. His father takes Jess' needs to stretch and pee a lot better than he does, and this surprises him. His father's never been patient.

He tries to puzzle him out and watches the older man's eyes soften as he looks at Jess. Sam wonders if he's thinking of mom in those moments, if maybe he's seeing his wife in the blonde hair. His eyes are still soft and gentle when they settle on him.

'I'm glad she makes you happy,' is said in a barely comprehensible grunt.

'Does she remind you of mom?' The question is out there before Sam can stop it.

John merely looks surprised. 'Jess? No, not really.' He chews on the thought for a while longer, and Jess is walking back to them when he speaks again. 'Dean's like you mom in more than just looks. She used to take things well, you know, surprises or shocks. Much better than I ever did,' John's lips twist into a sardonic smile. Sam thinks about this for a while because he's always thought Dean's carefree attitude was a covering for deeper emotions but maybe he got that from mom.

They finally arrive at the bar and it looks like they're expected. The door's flung open before the truck's stopped. 'Winchester, you asshole,' the words are shouted across at them but Sam's watchful eyes sees a woman rather than Bobby striding towards them. He winces, not surprised that his father has pissed someone off and a minute later, he's staring as the woman grasps the taller man and pulls him in for a tight hug.

_What. The. Hell._ Hell has officially frozen over, Sam thinks as he takes in the sight.

* * *

**Author's Note****: **So a story about Dean is incomplete without Sam (and John, in this case). So obviously I thought we should see what's happening in both places/groups of people. Hence the 'Dean' sandwich was born. And it became a 'Dean Club Sandwich'. Initially, the idea was to have something from John's point of view with a bit of Dean in the middle, and then Sam in the end. But Jess wanted to insert herself and I thought it would be fascinating to see it from a civilian's point of view. Hence two lots of Dean between that of John, Sam and Jess.

Please tell me what you think of the chapter.

A thank you to ChickoftheSupernaturalVariety, Elric2007 and StarfireLuvRobin7 for favouriting this story.

A thank you to StarfireLuvRobin7 and dulcinea54 for following this story too. I hope you guys enjoy reading this and continue to read more.


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